


People might talk.

by violet_vernet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Aftermath of a Case, Chasing a Suspect, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crime Scenes, Dark Alleys, Deductions, Did I mention fluff?, Domestic Fluff, Drugged Sherlock, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Fluff, Garridebs, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, I REGRET NOTHING, Implied/Referenced Torture, In Hospital, M/M, Nightmares, Quiet Night In, Rising Water, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sickfic, Trapped, Walk-In Freezer, another cameo by lestrade, at NSY, back of a cab, cameo by Mummy, cameo by Mycroft, cameo by lestrade, cranberries, in a jail cell, in the rain, it's complete trash, more Christmas fluff, over breakfast, pulled out of the thames, reference to Thor Bridge, reference to the Beryl Coronet, seriously so much fluff, ugly christmas jumpers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 9,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_vernet/pseuds/violet_vernet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've challenged myself to write a collection of 30 fluffy, trope-y first-kiss ficlets in 30 (very non-consecutive) days. I regret nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath Of A Case

They came in to Baker Street, as they had so many times before, arguing about Sherlock’s tendency to hare off into danger by himself. This time he’d chased down and cornered a suspect who turned on him with a knife. Although he’d managed to subdue the suspect, John found him in a dead-end alley, bleeding from a gash across his ribs, and dizzy enough to have to lean against a brick wall. (“Shock, John. And the wound was superficial. I’m fine now.”)

John slammed the door of 221B shut behind them. Sherlock was reaching toward the hook with his coat when John caught him by the arm and spun him around. Then John slammed his forearm across Sherlock’s chest (carefully avoiding the wound), and pinned him to the wall.

"You inconsiderate fucking bastard,” John hissed, skewering Sherlock a second time with his livid, grief-stricken eyes. “Will you _ever_ think to stop and let me catch up, so I can cover your back? I almost lost you again, you complete and utter _arsehole_ —” John took a deep breath that was almost a sob, and finally looked away (but did not loosen his grip one bit).

“ _John_ ," Sherlock breathed, still unable to move. Then he leaned down, deliberately, but just slow enough to telegraph what he was about to do, and kissed him.


	2. Quiet Night In

Most of the takeaway was gone, although Sherlock continued to pick through John’s container for any remaining prawns. Most of the wine was gone too, so John sloshed the last bit into his glass and leaned over Sherlock to grab the second bottle.

"So, what do you want to do now?" John asked, as he unsteadily corkscrewed the bottle open and topped off Sherlock’s glass. 

"I thought you were going to make me sit through one of those interminable science fiction movies," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If we must, let’s get on with that while I’m still intoxicated enough to tolerate it."

"Wow, you’re practically co-operative," John said. "I should get you drunk more often."

"Nonsense. I’m not _that_ drunk,” Sherlock replied, pushing himself into a standing position. He let go of the table and walked to the sofa with exaggerated dignity, then collapsed onto it and pointed at the telly. “Off you go, then.”

John giggled as he collected the wine glasses and bottle and made his way to the sofa. “So, Star Trek? You’re sure?” he asked, as he turned on the telly and logged into their Netflix account.

"For God’s sake, John, I’m sure; get on with it," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "The more you… _waffle_ at me, the less likely that the pleasure of your company is going to be worth enduring this no-doubt ridiculous movie."

"Sherlock," John said, then very carefully set down the remote, turned to his friend, and kissed him.


	3. Chasing A Suspect

They were running after a suspect one night; feet pounding on pavement, blood pumping through their ears, sucking in burning lungfuls of cold air. Suddenly Sherlock rounded a corner and shot down a narrow alley, presumably following one of his arcane shortcuts. John managed to keep up better these days now that his limp was gone, but when he got around the corner Sherlock wasn’t anywhere in sight. John let momentum carry him a few steps into the alley before stopping to look around and catch his breath. As he stood there with his hands braced on his thighs and his sides heaving, he felt a familiar hand grip his wrist and pull him into a shadowed doorway.

"Sher— Sherlock," John panted.

"Shh," came the reply, barely audible. He felt himself being positioned behind Sherlock, whose coat made better camouflage than John’s blond hair. After what seemed like an eternity of struggling to breathe silently into utter darkness, with Sherlock shielding him from the rest of the world, John became aware of two sets of footsteps approaching.

"No, we’ve lost them," Sherlock rumbled next to his ear, reading his mind. "This’ll be Lestrade and Donovan."

"Then why are we still hiding?" John whispered.

"Because," Sherlock started to say, but then John was kissing him, and he couldn’t think of an answer.


	4. Sickfic

"John," Sherlock croaked, from under his pile of duvets on the sofa. "John!"

John came skidding into the sitting room, sloshing a mug of tea. “All right, I’m here… what is it?”

"I’m too warm. The air is stifling in here. Open a window?"

"No, absolutely not; it’s freezing out. It might even snow this evening. Take a blanket off, genius." John set the tea on the table and patted at one end of the duvet-pile. "Budge up," he said, and the pile contracted so he could sit down.

"This is awful, John. _Do_ something,” Sherlock whined, still cocooned.

"You know I can’t help a viral infection." John replied. "But you can have this tea if you want it."

Suddenly the blankets shifted, and Sherlock emerged as far as his shoulders. He grimaced as he pushed himself back into a mostly-sitting position, then stuck one arm out at John, who obediently picked up the tea and handed it to him.

John couldn’t help smiling fondly at the sight of Sherlock, slurping a mug of tea with both hands, practically curled around it with his knees drawn up, swaddled in comforters. And apparently John really was a bad man, because the disheveled curls and red nose only added to his charm. 

"C’mere, let me check your fever," John said, leaning over to put a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. For the first time since Sherlock got sick his glassy eyes had a gleam in them, then he grabbed John’s wrist and pressed his hot, dry lips into John’s palm.

They sat there staring wide-eyed at each other, hearts pounding, for a long minute. Then Sherlock blinked a few times and said “I didn’t want to get you sick, too.” John, still open-mouthed, made a small noise that might have been “oh,” then dove for him.


	5. Nightmare

John bolted awake with the metallic-electric taste of fear in his mouth and his pulse rushing past his eardrums. It wasn’t the usual hot sand and searing pain of Afghanistan that woke him, though. It was Sherlock’s blood streaming past his ice-blue eyes and pooling on the pavement. But now the quiet darkness of John’s room enveloped him, and he consciously tried to calm his gasping breath and thundering heartbeat. 

He was still sitting rigidly upright crushing fistfuls of blanket a moment later, when the door cracked open and a rectangle of dim light fell on his floor. “John?” Sherlock said, uncertainly. 

"Did I wake you?" John asked. "I’m sorry."

"No, it’s… fine," Sherlock said, still hovering in the doorway. "I was analyzing earlobes in various states of decomposition when you called out for me, so —"

"Sherlock?" John said, in an odd, flat voice.

"Yes?"

"Can you come here, please?"

"I — yes?" John could see Sherlock move closer in the faint light from the hallway, but he stopped about a foot away from John’s bed.

"Sit with me for a minute?"

"John, are you… is everything…"

"Just for a minute," John said, struggling to sound calm. 

"Of course," Sherlock said, and finally sat down beside him. John took a deep breath and leaned back against the headboard. He realized he was still clutching the sheets, and willed his fingers to uncramp and let go.

"Sherlock, I — " John began, then he threw his arms around Sherlock and tried to sound like he wasn’t sobbing.

Sherlock froze for a second, then awkwardly embraced John in return. When John took that as a signal to pull him closer, he dared to relax a bit, then pressed his lips into John’s impossibly soft hair.


	6. In Hospital

 John couldn’t open his eyes.  His eyelids weighed about a thousand pounds each.  Why couldn’t he open his eyes?

_Oh my god.  Sherlock!_

He remembered, something was wrong. Sherlock was in trouble.  He struggled to open his eyes, to say something. 

He felt a hand squeeze his hand.  Long, thin fingers.  Gripping almost so hard it would bruise.  Sherlock was here, he was safe.  John relaxed. 

He slept for a while.

The next time John woke up he could open his eyes, but it was mostly dark.  He was looking at a television.  It was on, but there was no sound.  There were rails on the sides of his bed.  He was covered in tubes and wires.  Sherlock was slouched in the chair next to his bed, asleep, still holding his hand. 

Oh.  Hospital.

He went back to sleep.

The third time John woke up, it was daytime again.  Sherlock was still in the chair next to his bed, but curled up with his arms around his knees.

"You’re awake," Sherlock said, not looking at him.

"Yeah," John replied.

"Good," Sherlock said.  "That’s very—" He trailed off.  Then, "John, I’m so _sorry,_ I didn’t know.”

"It’s not your fault, Sherlock.  I’m a grown adult; I accept the risks we take when—"

"Not that, John.  Well, that, too.  But I’m mostly sorry I made you think that I was dead, that you’d lost me.  It’s only been two _days_ for me, you waited two _years_ and didn’t even know I was alive, and you’re actually fine and I  _already_ can’t do this anymore, John, I _can’t-_ -“

John reached over and pried Sherlock’s arm free.  “It’s okay,” he said, drawing Sherlock’s hand to his lips and gently kissing it, then letting their arms stretch along the bed, fingers interlaced. “It’s all going to be fine. I promise.” 


	7. Crime Scene Deduction

"…and here," Sherlock said, pointing at the snow, "you’ll observe two sets of tracks - one wearing boots and one barefoot.  They struggled, then Boots ran towards the woods.  So you see, Mr. Holder, your son _did_ try to prevent the theft.  But he _also_ tried to cover it up, which means he knew Boots’ accomplice and was trying to protect her.  And there’s only one person that could possibly be - his own sister, Mary.”  
  
"Brilliant," John said with that perfect, incredulous smile that lit up his whole face.  He was beaming at Sherlock as though they were alone in the room, possibly in the entire world; as though solving the case was a performance Sherlock put on solely for John’s benefit.  ( _Wasn’t it?_ muttered a cynical voice in the back of Sherlock’s head.  The voice sounded like Mycroft, so he decided to ignore it.)  
  
Sherlock broke eye contact with John and turned to the client.  “Unfortunately,” he continued, “It’s beyond even _my_ considerable talent to tell you where your daughter and her lover are now.  But if it’s any comfort, living on the run with that man must be more than sufficient punishment for the wrong she’s done you.  Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Sherlock said, and abruptly stalked off toward the main road to hail a cab, expecting John to make their apologies and catch up.  
  


Instead, John followed him immediately, and as soon as they were out of earshot from the crime scene he said “Hey, wait a minute.” When Sherlock stopped to look at him, John wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down into a slightly clumsy, but absolutely rhapsodic, kiss.


	8. Hair Cut

Sherlock had gotten his hair cut that morning.  And as rarely as _that_ happened, John had never seen it _this_ short.  Okay, maybe for about a week after Sherlock-- came back from Serbia, when Mycroft’s people groomed him within an inch of his life.  But other than that, Sherlock tended to keep his hair a little too long.  He claimed it was “neglect of irrelevant transport issues,” but John suspected he was actually more than a little vain about his mop of glossy black curls.  _And who could blame him?_ John thought.  _It is one of his better features.  You know, objectively speaking._

But the real problem with Sherlock’s haircut was that John couldn’t stop looking at it, for some reason.  He found himself outright staring more than once, back at the flat, until Sherlock called him out on it.  Fortunately, not long after that they got invited to a crime scene, which was at least a distraction for both of them.  But as the day wore on John started stealing little sideways glances again, wondering how so small a change could have such a huge impact on his friend’s appearance.  He wondered if it would feel different to the touch, the way his own hair felt paradoxically softer after a trim.  He thought about how different it was to ruffle short hair, rather than running one’s fingers through longer curls.  He considered —

"John, you’ve made it quite clear what you think of my hair; unfortunately nothing can be done to regain your approval other than letting it grow, so I suggest you give it a break and stop staring at me for a _minute,_ thank you.”

John’s mouth snapped shut (... _h_ _ad it been hanging open? oh dear..._ ), and he finally looked away from Sherlock, blushing.  “I don’t, um… that is… sorry,” he mumbled.  “You look… _fine_ , I’m just… not used to it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed for a second, then he said “Oh,” in a soft, almost teasing way.

"What?" John yelped, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice.

"You don’t disapprove at all, do you?"  Sherlock said, looming into John’s personal space.

"Sherlock, I —" John started, but then Sherlock’s lips were pressed at the corner of his mouth, and any conscious thoughts he may have been trying to express just sort of… evaporated.


	9. Walk-In Freezer

They’d been trapped in the walk-in freezer for five hours and twenty three minutes now.  And yes, John was bloody well counting.  Of course there was no mobile service, and _of course_ they hadn’t called Lestrade (or anyone else, for that matter) beforehand to say where they were going. Sherlock made halfhearted attempts to fiddle with the lock every half-hour or so, but it was too rusted for him to pick without the proper tools.  The best thing that could be said about the situation was that Sherlock had his coat despite the unseasonably warm day ( _OF COURSE_ ), and that John’s anger was keeping him warm.  Mostly.

Once again, John had stewed until he boiled over and was taking it out on Sherlock.  “I just c-can’t believe — “

"Yes, John," Sherlock cut him off, not taking his eyes off the lock.  "I know, John.  I screwed up, John.  You were right, John."

"For g-god’s sake, Sherlock, can you not — "

"What do you want me to say that I haven’t said already?  Badgering me isn’t going to get us out of here any faster."

"I know, I just don’t unders-stand how you could — "

"Would you _please,”_ Sherlock snarled, “BACK OFF.  I’m trying to think!” 

John’s mouth snapped shut, and his eyes narrowed.  He realized he was trying to suppress a constant, full-body shiver as he stuffed his fists as deep as they could go into the pockets of his inadequate cardigan, and he thought, _s_ _od this._ "Well then, the least you can do is give me a turn with your coat.  I’m freezing, and while you’re thinking it’s all just transport to you, right?"

"Yes, fine, if it’ll keep the peace," Sherlock said, standing and removing his coat.  But when he finally turned to face John and saw how gray and exhausted John looked, his scowl vanished, and he seemed genuinely taken aback for a second.

"I _am_ sorry,” Sherlock said in a gentler voice, leaning distressingly close to John as he draped the coat over John’s shoulders.  For a second, John’s entire world contracted dizzily into the smell of Sherlock’s poncy shampoo and the warmth of his coat, and John could feel his shivering muscles start to relax by degrees.

"It’s okay," he said finally, meeting his eyes.  "Thank you. I’m sorry, too. I’m just cold."  John grinned, and licked his lips.  "How long until the day shift gets here and lets us out, do you think?"

"About an hour and 40 minutes," Sherlock said, looking ruefully at his shoes.  

_He could be so damn adorable when he wasn’t being a colossal ass_ , John thought. "Well, the coat definitely helps," he said, "but to be honest, I think I might have mild hypothermia; I’m not sure I’m thinking entirely clearly."

"Yes, I suspected you might be."  Sherlock was frowning.  "I’m sorry I got you locked in here without a coat, John.  And I’m sorry I’m a selfish git and didn’t realize you were suffering sooner."

"Now I must be hallucinating," John said, giggling.  "Or did you actually just apologize, _twice_?” 

"You heard me," Sherlock retorted sharply, but he couldn’t stop one corner of his mouth from twisting up into a wry smile.  "But really, we need to keep you warm.  Any ideas?"

John really must be hypothermic, he thought.  He must be experiencing mental confusion.  Because he heard himself saying, “Hmm, I can think of one…” before closing the last few inches between them and kissing Sherlock.


	10. Over Breakfast

They'd just wrapped up one of those "not a holiday" cases that required traveling to some remote village and settling in for a few days. This one began with reports of a ghost ( _"Why did out-of-town cases always seem to be about a ghost?"_ John thought) and turned out to be drugs manufacturers using a small cave system with freak acoustics.  After almost a week of the two of them investigating overnight and sleeping in a cramped and dingy room by day (if at all), of course the case concluded in a dramatic, terrifying stand-off before the police finally arrived. 

At the end, John's cravings for his own bed back in 221B were physically painful.  And when he and Sherlock stumbled across the threshold of their home and dropped their bags in the hall for Mrs. Hudson to deal with, the relief that flooded over John was bliss.  But he was surprised to feel a tiny bit of loss, as well.  As he trudged up the steps to his room, he felt as though he were moving away from a warm fire and letting a chill creep back around him.

(" _You're clearly exhausted, Watson; you've gone all maudlin,"_ he thought.  _"Hold it together long enough to get some sleep and it'll all be fine in the morning.")_

But as he drifted off, John was thinking about how he wished he could quit his job at the surgery and spend the rest of his life traveling the countryside solving mysteries with Sherlock, and how quiet it was with nobody else's breathing in the room.

That was early afternoon on Sunday, and John didn't wake again until Monday morning.  His first conscious thought was that he was surprised Sherlock let him sleep in peace that long.  His second thought was, _"Shit, work in two hours; better dash."_   He ran downstairs to have a wash, registering that Sherlock was experimenting in the kitchen, then went back up to his room to get dressed.  When he returned to the kitchen, there was a mug of tea and a plate of toast waiting for him.

"Jesus, you did this?  Thank you, Sherlock," John said, shoving the food in his mouth and washing it down as fast as he could.

"It was no trouble," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off his microscope.  "I'd already made a pot of tea for myself, and it's hardly difficult to put bread in the toaster and push the lever."

"I know, I'm just surprised you thought of it," John said, then slid behind Sherlock to put his plate in the sink.  On his way back through he stopped for a second to rest his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and kiss the top of his head, then he was grabbing his coat and running out the door. 

A moment later, the door re-opened.  "Did I just --" John said, staring intently at the wall beside him.

"It appears so," Sherlock replied, still looking at his microscope.

"Right," John said.  "And that's not -- you don't --"

"I don't mind," Sherlock said, softly.  It startled both of them enough that they made eye contact.

John finally managed to say, "Do you suppose we should... talk about it?"

"You should probably go to work; you're late already," Sherlock said, looking back at his microscope, and John didn't know whether to feel relieved or rejected.  But then Sherlock took a deep breath and went on, in a low voice like a purr, "But when you get home, don't expect to waste a lot of time _talking_ about it." 

And suddenly, John found he no longer cared about work at all.


	11. Rising Water

They’d been sneaking around a derelict warehouse by the river one night, investigating a gang that moved stolen property.  Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn’t anticipated that several members of the gang would _also_ be there.  So now they were handcuffed together through a steel bridge support not too far from the warehouse, standing in a couple of feet of water, waiting to see if high tide or exposure could finish them off before they were noticed and rescued. 

At first Sherlock had been encouragingly dismissive of the danger, saying that it was unlikely for the water to rise that much, at this point in the river, at this time of year.  But after what seemed like an eternity (but was more likely an hour or two), the water had reached John’s shoulders, and he realized Sherlock hadn’t assured him they’d be fine in quite some time.  _Shit._

Naturally, Sherlock more or less heard the thought as it crossed John’s mind.  He shifted in the darkness and sent water lapping in all directions, then took a deep breath and began, “John — “

"No, Sherlock," John interrupted.

"But John, I — "  
  
"I said no.  Not now."  
  
"But I think there’s something I should tell you, and — "

"Sherlock, don’t you _dare_ say anything to me that you’ll regret tomorrow, because _we are getting out of this_ ,” John said, evenly.  “Now hush.”

Touched by his soldier's faith and steadfastness even in this grim situation, Sherlock couldn't suppress a rueful smile. “Oh, I won’t regret it,” he said, as he leaned in around the bridge support, cupped John’s face with his free hand, and kissed him.

A few minutes later they heard Sgt. Donovan distantly calling “Oi, Freak!  You here?” in the warehouse behind them, and managed to draw her attention down to the river.  And not even her snide little digs as she freed them with bolt cutters could put a damper on what had turned out to be, all things considered, a pretty spectacular evening.


	12. at NSY

It was 4:08 am, and they were still at NSY giving statements to Lestrade’s people. This was the part John hated most — the mystery had been solved, the suspect was caught, and now they were in a little windowless room telling the same story over and over again to various people who didn’t actually care.  Well, Sherlock was talking to them; John was trying not to doze off with his head resting on his right arm.

"…so I deduced it must be the gardener.  And when we confronted him about it, in broad daylight in a public place I might add, he pulled a gun on John — us — both of us, actually.  Which is when I immobilized him and John attempted to disarm him.  Unfortunately for Mr. Woodley, in the ensuing struggle the gun went off, killing him instantly.  Fortunately for the public, the Brixton Ripper is no more.  And that really must be the end of it, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, suddenly standing up and tying on his scarf.  “My partner is clearly flagging and needs to rest.”

"Wha — huh?" yawned John, vaguely aware he was being discussed.  "S’fine, Sherlock, finish up here."

"No, John, I think we’re done for the night.  Any further questioning can wait until tomorrow, can’t it, Gerald?"

"For god’s sake, Sherlock, it’s  _Greg_ and you know it,” Lestrade sighed.  “Don’t think getting cute with me will win you any favors.  You’re right, though, John looks like hell.”

"Ta, mate," John said, rolling his eyes.

"Certainly," Lestrade replied with his sunniest smile.  "We  _will_ wrap this up tomorrow,” he went on, brandishing one finger at them, “so don’t make any other plans.  Now get out of here and get some sleep, you two.”

Sherlock vanished, needing no encouragement.  John was still a bit groggy, and took a second to stretch, drain the last of his coffee, and throw the empty paper cup in the bin.  By the time he got to the lifts Sherlock was already inside one, holding it open.

"Thanks for backing me up in there," John said, as the doors slid closed.

"You’re clearly exhausted, John, even Anderson could tell by the bags under your eyes that — “

"Hang on," John interrupted, frowning at Sherlock in a fond way (an expression that only John’s face seemed to be able to manage).  "I was trying to compliment you; don’t spoil the moment. No, I mean with Woodley.  I don’t regret anything — "

"Nor should you," Sherlock interjected, looking sharply at John.  "He brought that on himself.  By  _accident_.”

"I know!  I know!  Jesus, I —  _He pulled a gun on you, Sherlock_!" John hissed, momentarily losing control.  Then he took a quick breath and continued, "I’m just saying. Things still aren’t… easy, for me, and I — thank you for standing with me through, well, everything.  That’s all.  I just had to say it."

"Ah," Sherlock said, softly.  "John, I’m only — it’s not necessary to… he aimed that gun at you too, you know."

"What a fucking mess we are," John said, giggling; then he leaned up and kissed him.


	13. Playing the Violin

Sherlock was analyzing a soil sample to determine its geographic origin when he heard a creak on the stairs above him.   _2:37 AM_ , he thought; _if John’s attempting to come downstairs quietly at this time of night, he almost certainly had a nightmare._   A moment later John entered the sitting room through the far door and sat down without saying a word to Sherlock, then attempted to pretend to read.   _Nightmare confirmed_ , Sherlock thought, and rose to find his violin.   
  
He’d learned not to try interacting with John directly at this stage; he simply checked his tuning and began to play.  He was facing the window, but he only looked out into the darkness for a moment.  Then he closed his eyes and focused on the music as it unfurled from his bow. In this meditative state, he didn’t decide to play certain pieces, so much as he allowed bits and fragments of melody to bubble up and run together as they wished.   
  
Usually, when enough time had passed that Sherlock resurfaced in his own thoughts and played out whatever piece he found himself in, John would be dozing again.  Sherlock would quietly return to whatever he’d been working on, and John would eventually rouse himself enough to go back to bed.  But tonight, when Sherlock set down the violin and turned back toward the kitchen, he was pleased to see John still awake and grinning incandescently at him.

"Brilliant," John said, golden in the firelight.  

"Yes," Sherlock replied, then kneeled down next to John’s chair, took his hand, and kissed him.


	14. Christmas

Visiting Sherlock’s folks for Christmas was kind of tradition at this point.  In addition to being an excellent time, it gave John an excuse not to go to Harry’s (although he always felt a pang of guilt when he thought this).  And John’s presence at least _helped_ Sherlock and Mycroft be civil to each other.

Those were the reasons John let himself consider in so many words, anyway.  He tried not to acknowledge the separation anxiety that had simmered in his gut last year, when he still wasn’t sure if Sherlock would be inviting him along again.  (And when John had finally worked up the nerve to say, carefully offhandedly, “Tell them I say hi,” and Sherlock had replied with an eye-roll, “Don’t be obtuse, John.  Of course you’re coming,” John was a little embarrassed about how relieved he’d been.)

At any rate, this was their third Christmas at the Holmes’ cottage.  As soon as they arrived, Mummy (as she’d insisted John call her too) took him aside for a chat.  “Sherlock tells me you’re the kind of person who worries until you’re very clear on something,” she said, “so I wanted you to hear this from me.  John, you’re _always_ welcome here, as long as you want to be.  Even if Himself’s being awful.  The invitation’s not to do with him; it’s from me.”  John had flushed a bit and stammered his thanks, but she waved him off dismissively and said “Of course, my dear.  You should know by now, you’re family.”

That evening they sat around the fire drinking peppermint white russians and cranberry martinis, while Mycroft moaned about the pedestrian Christmas carols and Sherlock pretended to deduce all the wrapped presents.  (When he told Mycroft that John had _clearly_ gotten him a subscription to the Cake of the Month Club when he _knew_ it was another hideous umbrella for Mycroft’s hideous umbrella collection, John realized he was just teasing and not _actually_ ruining all the surprises.  And he must have read the recognition on John’s face, because he shot John one of those side-eyed looks, winked at him, and went back to twitting Mycroft.)

It was past midnight when Mycroft declared that he’d had all the “merry” he could take for one day, and would see them in the morning.  Shortly after, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes decided to call it a night as well.  “We know you two keep unorthodox hours,” Mummy said.  “Just turn off the outdoor fairy lights when you go to bed, please.”

And then they sat there in companionable silence in the firelight for an hour or so.  Sherlock was slung crosswise in a recliner chair with his legs hanging over the side, gazing off into an upper corner of the room.  John was perched on the sofa with his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, staring at the fire.  He was as drunk from the day of warmth and belonging as he was from the white russians, and he’d be content to just sit there forever, awash in happiness.  But eventually the fire ran low, and Sherlock got up to bank it.

"I’ll get the fairy lights," John said, proud of himself for not wobbling _very_ much as he got up.  He made his way to the front hall and threw the switch he knew controlled the decorations, then paused for a moment to reflect on knowing his way around the Holmes’ house so well.  With a solemn, grateful sort of contentment, he turned back to the sitting room to gather his flatmate and head off to their room. 

Sherlock was still fiddling with the fire, so John leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed and just watched him for a moment. Then Sherlock stood up, brushing his hands on his trousers, and looked back at John.

"You realize where you are?" Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow, as he walked directly over the coffee table and crossed the room.

"Right where I should be?" John asked recklessly, high on all the feelings he was sure Sherlock could plainly read on his face anyway.

"No, I mean — look up," Sherlock grinned, now inches away. 

John tilted his head back a fraction, and finally noticed the sprig of mistletoe.  “Oh,” he said, then paused.  “No, I stand by my answer."

Sherlock’s smile took on a predatory glint, then he slowly pressed John up against the doorframe and kissed him breathless.


	15. Pulled Out of the Thames

They were doing a dangerous bit of breaking and entering on a houseboat when the owners came home earlier than expected.  There wasn’t anywhere to hide if someone came below-deck, so as they heard the engine whirring to life they looked at each other and silently came to a decision.  They crept to the rear sliding door, and Sherlock put his hand on the latch.  Their eyes met again, and John nodded.

Sherlock popped the latch and slid the door open in one fluid motion.  In two strides his foot was on the railing, then he was launching himself at the river.  John took an instant longer to climb the railing and vault himself over.  They were counting on the driver being occupied at the other end, plus the engine noise between them, to cover their exit.  But a second man noticed them immediately and started firing shots in their direction.  Their only hope was to dive, and swim for the riverbank as fast as possible.   
  
John made it to shore first, and as he heaved himself up onto the gravel, he was relieved to see the houseboat speeding off, having chosen to flee rather than pursue them.  Then he realized he had no idea where Sherlock was, and his anxiety slammed back into him.  He started pacing the riverbank scanning the water for any sign of Sherlock, and eventually spotted him lying face-down in some mud and reeds, camouflaged by his dark clothes.   
  
“Jesus, Sherlock, are you okay?” John said, kneeling to examine him.   
  
Sherlock coughed and turned onto his side, then sat up.  “I’m fine, John,” he croaked.  “I just inhaled a little too much of the river.”  Then his eyes widened.  “Did you know you’re bleeding?” 

"Oh, yeah, doesn’t surprise me.  I was bashed in the head by what felt like an entire log floating by.  No concussion though, it’ll be fine."  John sat down heavily in the mud next to Sherlock and leaned against his side.  "For a second I thought I’d lost you again, when I saw you lying there…"  Sherlock felt John shivering, and slipped an arm around his waist to draw him closer.   
  
"Never again, Sherlock," John whispered.  "Promise me."   


Sherlock’s only reply was to gently tilt John’s head back and kiss him; but John seemed to be thoroughly content with that.


	16. Drugged

Sherlock had, once again, rushed off into a confrontation and gotten into trouble. By the time John had worked out where he was and caught up to him, he'd been drugged and locked in the coal cellar of a crumbling mansion. John had, of course, brought the police and an ambulance, but he insisted on being the one to lead the search and conduct Sherlock's initial medical examination. It turned out to be a wise decision and not just a sentimental one, because when John threw the door open to what he thought was an empty room, Sherlock leaped out from the darkness and launched an uncoordinated but still surprisingly effective attack at him.

Rather than fighting back or trying to subdue Sherlock, John remained as still as he could under the assault, and said "Sherlock, it's me! Stand down, it's over, we're here to get you out." 

These words had a strange effect on Sherlock; he backed off and stopped attacking, then sighed and slid heavily down the wall until he was sitting. "That's a lie and you know it," he slurred. "You're not actually here, just like you weren't in Serbia, or, or... you know. The other places."

When John realized what Sherlock meant, he suddenly needed to sit down as well. "Sherlock... oh my god, no. This is real, I promise," he said, leaning into Sherlock in the hope that physical contact would help ground him. "Lestrade and some people are here, can I call them in? They just want to make sure you're safe to go home, and then I'm taking you out of here."

"Really," Sherlock said disbelievingly. "I'm not just imagining this, you really came and got me this time?" He put his hand over John's, hesitantly at first, then twining their fingers together.

"Really," John replied, with an ache in his chest from trying not to consider everything Sherlock was implying.

"It's always you, John Watson," Sherlock breathed, reverently, and then he was kissing him.

Finally, John got his breath back enough to say, "Hey. This isn't -- I'm happy to see you, too, but let's get you home first, Okay?" 

Sherlock pulled away with a grin. "Okay," he purred. And then, "You know how I know this is real?"

"How?" John asked, finding it still a bit difficult to breathe.

"If you were my imagination, you wouldn't have stopped me," Sherlock said, and John suddenly felt like he was on fire from the inside. It took every fiber of willpower John had to remember where they were and what condition Sherlock was in.

"Later," he finally managed. "Let's get home."

"Yes. Home," Sherlock replied agreeably, and burrowed his forehead into John's shoulder.


	17. Back of a Cab

Sherlock had just concluded a case, but it didn’t feel successful.  He’d delivered the final, damning deduction to the client, who in a shocking twist had also turned out to be the murderer.  Mrs. Gibson had then broken free and fled through her house, and locked herself in an upstairs bathroom. By the time the police forced their way in, she’d taken her own life by means of the same poison she’d used to kill her husband and his lover. 

(Mrs. Gibson had staged their bodies as a murder-suicide, supposedly committed by the lover when Mr. Gibson refused to leave his wife for him.  Then she’d contacted Sherlock about her husband’s “disappearance,” and had hoped Sherlock would be satisfied with the obvious conclusion.  She’d hoped wrong.)

Now John and Sherlock were in a cab trying to get home across London through evening traffic, and Sherlock was apparently planning to spend the entire longer-than-usual ride silently glaring out his window, looking like thunder.  Finally, John ( _who was also feeling a bit grim and agitated, not that anyone had asked, thanks_ ) couldn’t take it anymore.  “Sherlock, could we not — “

"Three people dead, John," Sherlock cut him off, "because two of them, as the saying goes, ‘found happiness,’ directly resulting in the third’s prolonged suffering and eventual madness.  Tell me again why anyone’s supposed to _want_ to ‘find happiness’?”

"Well, it’s not really something you can help, it just happens to you," John replied, calming a bit now that he’d got Sherlock talking.  "Falling in love, I mean, not the murder spree part.  That doesn’t happen to most people, thank God.  And it wasn’t about love, Sherlock, that woman was just _bananas._ I suppose it might have made some difference if Gibson had just been honest with her from the beginning, but she was bound to go off the deep end eventually whether he’d stayed with her or not.  I don’t blame him for seeing a chance at real happiness and trying to take it… and I don’t think that’s what led to their deaths, either.  I think it was all the years of him _not_ going after what made him happy and staying involved with her insanity that did it.  And if life is short, then… that makes it even more important to spend it with people you actually love, whatever the cost.”

Sherlock was still glaring out the window, but as John talked he seemed to uncurl a bit.  “You really think so, after all _you’ve_ been through?” he said sarcastically, but John could hear the slight unsteadiness in his tone behind the defense.

"I should think that would be obvious, yes," John replied, smiling.  "But in case I haven’t been clear enough," he said, then took Sherlock’s hand, "I’ve never regretted it for a minute."

Sherlock looked down at their entwined hands and blinked a few times, then looked up at John.  “I — are you sure?  Because I don’t see where you’ve gotten anything out of it but pain…”

"Ah, well that’s where you’d be wrong," John said, meeting Sherlock’s intense scrutiny with a look of fond contentment, which didn’t waver even as Sherlock slowly leaned across the cab like a stalking cat and kissed him.


	18. In the Rain

It was going on half past four, but it was already starting to get dark.  A cold, drenching rain had been falling relentlessly on London all day.  John and Sherlock had been out in it, visiting their suspect’s usual haunts and interviewing her friends and associates.  To keep himself warm and to fend off his overpowering instinct to hibernate in all this gloom, John drank an endless series of lukewarm, acidic coffees that tasted faintly of stewed cardboard.  At this point he felt hollow, used up, swept out; as cold and tired on the inside as he was on the outside.

As they left the suspect’s yoga studio and plunged back into the icy, inch-deep river on the pavement, John came to a decision.  “Sherlock, I need a break.”  
  
Sherlock was still striding off ahead of John, expecting him to keep up.  “Just two more locations, John, and then we can —”

"No, Sherlock, listen to me," John said, and Sherlock stopped and turned back when he realized John wasn’t following him anymore.  "We are going over to that little sandwich shop," John said, "and I am going to eat a thing, and you are too if you know what’s good for you."

Sherlock scoffed, “Is that an order, _Doctor?_ ”

"I know you hate how you think it slows you down," John said, sidestepping the taunt, "but a few minutes of maintenance now is going to greatly improve your transport’s performance down the road, and you know it." 

For a minute, they both just stood there in the splattering rain, looking at each other.  Sherlock’s dark curls streamed limply down his forehead, ruining his attempt at a commanding glare.  John crossed his arms over his chest and shifted into a military posture, his face calm and unmoving.  At last, Sherlock’s mouth tightened as though he were trying to suppress a smile.  “Very well,” he said, “lead on.  I suppose you’re right that _you_ need it, at least.”   

"Ah, then tonight we’re pretending I don’t notice you stealing from my plate so you can maintain the illusion that you _don’t_ , are we?  Good to know; I’ll order two of everything," John said, and finally Sherlock’s small smile uncurled into a grin, and they were both giggling.  

"Really, John, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about," Sherlock said, attempting to look serious as he opened the restaurant’s door for John.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said in a warm, low voice like honey that Sherlock had never heard before.  Then, as he passed Sherlock and went through the door, he reached up and kissed him; briefly and awkwardly, but with intent.  "I’ve been putting that off for too long, too," John said in that same strange but electrifying voice, then he ducked into the restaurant’s foyer.  

Sherlock blinked a few times, still standing in the rain, holding the door open.  Then he started grinning, and followed John inside.


	19. In a Jail Cell

It definitely wasn’t the first time they’d ended up on the wrong side of a jail cell, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.  This time they’d been caught breaking and entering without a warrant, and the police who’d arrested them weren’t impressed by Sherlock’s “consulting detective” credentials.  And when Lestrade came by to see them in his capacity as their Mycroft-appointed babysitter, he had no sympathy for them either.

"I specifically told you two _not_ to engage with this suspect in _any way_ unless I was involved, and yet here we all are,” Lestrade said.  “And since you never seem to have any consideration for my investigations, or what kind of a mess you’re leaving me to clean up, it turns out I won’t have a chance to call Mycroft until the morning!”

"He doesn’t need _you_ to tell him what’s going on,” Sherlock sneered.  “I’m sure he’ll be along any minute to rub my nose in getting caught.”

"Oh no, no, no, Sherlock, that’s not how this works" Lestrade replied.  "I told you I didn’t just do what your brother tells me; I have some discretionary powers. And right now, I’m going to use them to let you think about what you’ve done… not that you will, so I don’t know why I bother," Lestrade said, grinning through the bars at him, "but I guess I should get _something_ enjoyable out of today.”  And then he swept out of the room without so much as a good-night.

The two of them sat side-by-side on the bed looking straight ahead in silence for a minute, then John said, “That went well, I think,” and Sherlock “mm-hmm”-ed and nodded in agreement.  They glanced sideways at each other, and cracked up.

"So you’re not… angry?" Sherlock asked in a too-casual voice, when their giggles finally subsided.

"Oh, I don’t know if I’d say I was _happy_ about this, when I _told_ you it was a bad idea,” John said.  “But if I’m trapped in this cell with you for the next sixteen hours, I’m certainly not going to spend it fighting over something we can’t change at this point anyway.”

"I don’t deserve you," Sherlock said, softly.  He was smiling fondly at John, but there was something sad in his eyes.

Startled, John tried to laugh it off as a joke.  “Too right,” he said, then winced as he saw even that small smile slide off Sherlock’s face.  “Hey, no, I was just— I’m sorry, I know you must be— that was a terrible thing to say, and… shit, obviously _I’m_ the one that doesn’t deserve _you._ ”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed uncomprehendingly and blinked back up to John’s in stages, as though the effort of processing what John had just said was visibly slowing him down.  “You— what?”

"Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock," John said, then ran one hand into the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him.


	20. Ugly Christmas Jumpers

"John, what _is_ this?” Sherlock asked, with a wrinkled nose.  He had drawn the offending object from the bag gingerly, and was holding it aloft pinched between his finger and thumb as though he almost couldn’t bear to touch it.

"It’s an ugly Christmas jumper, you daft git; exactly what you asked for," John said, not looking up from his laptop.

_“_ I guess I wasn’t expecting it to be _this_ ugly,” Sherlock said, spreading it out for a better look.  “ _Reindeer,_ John?  Seriously?”

"Look at the sleeve," John said, still typing.

Sherlock glanced down to see a red label shouting “PRESS ME!!!”  He did so, and the noses of all the reindeer lit up.  “John, no,” he said, turning horrified eyes on his friend.

John finally looked up.  “I’m afraid so,” he said, and smiled the bland, flat smile that suggested he was struggling to keep a straight face.  “The only one in your size.”  He went back to his laptop.  “You should see mine; much creepier.  The snowmen’s eyes glow.”

"Oh lord," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  "Whose idea was this, again?"

"Yours, in fact," John replied.  " _I_ just wanted to break into the club’s office and read their paperwork so we could turn the agent in, but you insist on going to their Ugly Jumper party and busting the guy personally, so… there’s your jumper.”

Sherlock glared skeptically at John, but there was no reaction.  Becoming resigned, he snapped the tags off the hateful garment, and peeled the “PRESS ME!” label off its sleeve.  As he slipped his arms into it and pulled it over his head, he shuddered; he could hear the synthetic yarn _squeak._   But when he finally got it settled and ruffled his hair back into place, Sherlock decided that it was worth wearing the repellent thing, because of the way John was beaming up at him.

"Sherlock, that’s… heehee, wait, let me get mine."  John reached over and fished the second jumper out of the bag.  He put it on without removing any of the tags, then pressed the button on his own sleeve.  As promised, the snowmen’s eyes lit up menacingly.  "It’s like something out of Doctor Who," John said, giggling.

"I don’t know what that means," Sherlock said softly, "but it’s a _very_ ugly jumper.”  Then he smiled at John, but his eyes were sad.

"Sherlock," John said, then took a deep breath and looked at the floor.  _I'm not good with... these things_ , he thought; then, _Sod it._ John looked back up at Sherlock and smiled bravely; then he slid one hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him.


	21. Garridebs

"Just you and me, isn't that how it's supposed to be, Sherlock?" Moriarty purred, the red dot never wavering from Sherlock's forehead. "It always comes back to you and me."

"And your little... helper," Sherlock said, indicating with his eyes at the sniper on the other end of the laser.

"Well, that's only fair, Sherlock, you have John," Moriarty grinned, "oh wait that's right, he's not speaking to you anymore, is he? I guess he found out your amazing superpowers weren't so amazing after all when you let his awful wife die, and now he's disappointed in you. How dull." Moriarty made an exaggerated frowny face, then rolled his eyes.

"Whatever the reason, it's for the best," Sherlock replied smoothly. "His... little obsession with me was flattering, but we all know it wasn't meant to last." 

"Right, right, Sherlock, very convincing, I think you even have John convinced." Moriarty giggled. "But you and I both know that's not true, don't we? It's tearing you *apart* inside, isn't it? It's not that he's disappointed with you, you think you deserve that. It's that you can't bear to be separated from him at all; it's killing you. You're withering, Sherlock. You're becoming weak. Over that, that... goldfish. And when we could have been so great together. Such a waste."

Sherlock noticed the sniper's laser had vanished, although it seemed that Moriarty had not. For the first time since he'd walked back into this wretched pool building again, Sherlock let himself begin to hope. "Oh, I don't know," he said, "I rather think we'd burn each other up. Too much alike. John now, yes, he's different. Easy to underestimate, I'll admit I'm guilty of it myself, but also... right behind you." 

Moriarty whirled around as John came through the door, gun drawn. He quickly realized his backup had been neutralized, and raised both hands, smiling. "You got me, boys." He nodded, and backed up a few paces. "You got me." The smile dropped, and Moriarty's face became cold. "But not for long." Like lightning, he pulled a pistol out of his suit jacket and fired at John, then as John collapsed and Sherlock ran to him, he calmly dropped the gun and walked towards the emergency exit.

"Jim," John called out from the ground, his voice remarkably normal for how much blood was pooling under him. Sherlock sank to his side and began searching for a wound, but John never took his eyes off Moriarty.

Moriarty paused, then shrugged and turned back. "Oh, what the hell. Yes, John?" he responded politely. "Last words, I presume?"

"No," John said, and lifted his hand to point at Moriarty; dazedly, Sherlock realized there was a gun in it. "I must be in shock too," he thought muzzily as the gun flashed, and an eternity later, the sound exploded from it. Moriarty froze, his eyes round with shock, and tried to speak. No sound came out. After a minute, a bright bloom of blood appeared on his shirt, and he staggered backwards and slid down the wall.

Barely absorbing what had just happened, Sherlock's attention snapped back to John. "Oh god," he babbled, "Tell me what to do. John! I need you, don't die. I just got you back, I mean I *think* I got you back, you can't die now, John, I have to tell you how sorry I am."

"Sherlock. Calm down," John gasped. "It hurts like bloody hell, but I'm not dying. I think." He pulled ineffectively at his shirt buttons but couldn't get a grip on them. "Lost feeling in my damned arm, apparently. Impact, probably; it'll come back. Could be worse. Would you?" 

Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt, and revealed a kevlar vest. Relief hit him so hard that tears sprung up in his eyes. As he bandaged the graze on John's arm that had bled so dramatically, he continued the nervous chatter. "Thank god, I thought I'd lost you, and while you weren't speaking to me -- I hadn't even had a chance to tell you I love you yet, you can't die without talking to me, John, I forbid it --"

Sensing that he had broken a couple of ribs and possibly his collarbone, John very carefully grabbed the front of Sherlock's coat, and slowly pulled him down into a kiss, interrupting him mid-sentence. "Shut up," John said, unnecessarily.

"John, I -- I'm sorry," Sherlock said, pulling away, eyes wide.

"I don't really blame you for Mary, Sherlock. But it had to look real. He had to believe you were alone, vulnerable. And... okay, I had to know if I mattered to you as much as you matter to me. I *was* still angry, about Magnussen, and the drugs. But it was the hardest thing I've ever done, telling you to go to hell and sending you into this alone."

"No, I mean... I'm sorry for -- what I did. To you. Both times. Leaving. I don't deserve you." Sherlock appeared to be struggling to speak coherently, then blinked a few times and looked around with more focus. "It really does look like an awful lot of blood, are you sure you're OK?" 

"I am now," John said, smiling and pulling Sherlock in again. They barely noticed a few minutes later, when Mycroft's people swarmed in and began taking charge of the scene.


	22. Bed Sharing

 

John was asleep when he felt a weight hit the inadequately-sprung hotel mattress.  His instincts registered it as "not a threat," and he went back to sleep.

 * * *

John's mind struggled to the surface again.  It was some time later; how much, he didn't know. Something happened, he remembered. Before.

Oh.  Sherlock.

It wasn't the first time the git had booked them a single, insisting he wouldn't sleep, then invaded John's bed in the middle of the night.  "He must maintain the pretense of being superhuman," John thought groggily, "good thing he can trust me to keep his secret."

That was John's only coherent thought before dissolving into sleep again.

 * * *

The next time John woke it had just gone daylight, and Sherlock was deep asleep in the bed next to him.  He looked younger, softer somehow.  John thought about all the traumas and sorrows that lined Sherlock's face when awake, and was overcome with a fierce, constricting affection.  He lay awake with it for a good hour, watching the sun climb the wall.  But eventually he must have gone under again.

* * *

Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open as though something had startled him.  He turned to find Sherlock still lying next to him, regarding him with a fond, slightly bemused expression.

"Sherlock?" John said, a bit disorientated.

"John," Sherlock replied with a bit of a sarcastic tone, but still smiling that slightly preoccupied smile.

"What-- was I having a nightmare?" John asked.

"No, I don't think so... not as much as you were snoring, at any rate," Sherlock said.

"Snor-- I was not," John denied flatly.

"Afraid so, John," Sherlock insisted.  "Maybe you stopped breathing completely, and it woke you up."

"I'm a doctor, I'd know if I were having apnea," John said.  "Really, what was it?"

"I've absolutely no idea; you were resting comfortably for at least fifty seven minutes prior to waking up, and I didn't notice any signs of REM activity, you just--"

"Fifty seven minutes?" John interrupted, propping his head up on his arm.

"Really, John, I know it's early, but if you can't keep up with--"

"You were watching me sleep for fifty seven minutes?"

"Ye-es? Um... not good?"

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"You. Sherlock Holmes. Laid here and did nothing, didn't get up and experiment, didn't read, didn't leave without telling me to pursue armed suspects; didn't, in fact, do any number of other, far more interesting things for fifty seven minutes, and instead sat here and watched me sleep, and I want to know, why?"

"I just -- it was nice. Both of us. Resting. Nothing going on for once.  And I forgot to bring that book, and... okay, maaaaaaybe I was experimenting to see how long it would take you to respond to your name versus a random word, and at what volume."

"Ah, see, there it is," John said, giggling. "And here for a minute I thought it might just have been me."

"It's always been you, John," Sherlock replied too quickly, in a strange, tight voice, then smiled weakly like he was hoping it would pass for a joke.  "Surely even you must have figured that out by now."

"Really?" John asked, visibly surprised.  "I-- really?"

"For God's sake, must everything be difficult with you?" Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes; then he reached across the bed and kissed him; gently, briefly, but with unmistakeable intention. 

"Oh," John said, blinking, when they broke apart.

And then a light came into his eyes, and he leaned over Sherlock and started kissing back.

 


End file.
